


when the lights go out (give me something to believe in)

by leocantus



Series: take my hand we’ll dive into the sea [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Crossdressing, Id Fic, M/M, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26713948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leocantus/pseuds/leocantus
Summary: She bows and walks away and Munehisa watches her go, sipping on his drink. Irritation boils up inside him suddenly; he wants to unravel her. Wants to peel all those layers away and see what lies beyond all those blank pages. He wants to push and pull until something true falls out.or: iwai is having a midlife crisis and his name is kurusu akira
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Iwai Munehisa, Iwai Munehisa/Kurusu Akira, Iwai Munehisa/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: take my hand we’ll dive into the sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944112
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	when the lights go out (give me something to believe in)

**Author's Note:**

> yeah no one is as shocked as me that this fic contains no porn. 
> 
> this is [as my heart bursts in the night (hold my hand)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405752) from iwai's pov, so kind of a spiritual successor rather than a story one but i have plans for one of those too so lets see how far this writing motivation thing takes me

Munehisa looks up when his whiskey is placed down in front of him, a thanks already on the tip of his tongue, only for it to die when he locks eyes with someone who is very much not Lala-chan.

She’s young. Very young. So young that he’s pretty sure it isn’t legal at all for her to work here, but it wouldn't be the first illegal thing to happen in Crossroads and it’s certainly not the worst. She smiles at him, a slow curl of her lips, eyes lowered in the sweet spot between coy and sultry as she murmurs, “Here’s your drink, Iwai-san.”

She’s bold, he’ll give her that. Cute too, in her short black dress. Munehisa gives his thanks, unable to stop the way his lips twitch in amusement as she bows and leaves. His gaze follows her idly as he enjoys his drink, but then his phone vibrates and he puts her out of his mind.

_“Her name is Ren-chan. She’s just moved to Tokyo for university.”_

_“Uh huh.”_

_“She’s just turned eighteen years old.”_

_“Didn’t ask, Lala-chan.”_

_“Didn’t you? Oh, my mistake.”_

Life happens. Munehisa doesn’t think too much about it until he finds himself back in Crossroads again just a couple of weeks later. Not unheard of, but he certainly can’t say that he normally goes to Crossroads with any degree of regularity. He nods to Lala-chan as he pushes open the door, and the look he receives in return makes him feel like he’s in trouble, or that she’s about to _cause_ trouble. Only intimate knowledge of the fact that running only makes it worse with her stops him from turning right back round again and leaving.

He settles in at his table at the back, popping in a new lollipop to stave of any cravings as the scent of tobacco reaches him. Oral fixation, Lala-chan would say. Either way Munehisa prefers this version to the cigarettes. He likes being able to make it up a flight of stairs without dying.

“Your drink, Iwai-san.”

“Thanks,” he grunts around his lollipop, abruptly reminded of Lala-chan’s latest hire. He lets his gaze follow the length of her arm up to the invitation in her smile. The sweet scent of her perfume curls around him, cloud soft, and Munehisa breathes it in deep. Her dress is a deep wine red tonight and her lips are painted to match, and when she walks away the back of the dress dips down in a deep vee. Munehisa catches himself staring long after she’s left.

_“Not that I don’t love having you here, but I used to have to pay someone to knock you out and drag you here to get you to visit me, Munehisa.”_

_“I can stop if you’re complaining.”_

_“Just an observation, Munehisa.”_

_“You can keep those to yourself.”_

He stays away longer this time. More because he’s busy and less to spite Lala-chan, but if he can get two birds with one stone then that’s even better. She’s been blowing up his phone, and annoying the shit out of him while she’s at it, but this isn’t the first nor the last time she’s tried meddling in his life. But with this latest clusterfuck he’d been called to deal with, Munehisa could definitely do with a drink, so Friday evening finds him settled in his corner in Crossroads.

He sits back and sips slowly at his scotch, savouring it as he idly sweeps his gaze over the room. Though it’s a Friday night, he’s pretty sure that the size of the crowd has a lot to do with Lala-chan’s newest employee. She’s very good at what she does, he’ll give her that. The way she moves — like she’s always aware of her body and every other body in the vicinity — the way she speaks, the way she smiles, the glancing touches… Munehisa's almost impressed. She makes it look easy too. Her calculated reactions and precise smiles and wide eyes have people hanging on her every word; it’s not often you have someone so masterful at manipulation at such a young age.

Munehisa takes another sip of his scotch, watching as she turns doe-eyed and innocent on one customer and flirty on the next, watching as her face settles into something neutral when she thinks no one is looking. He catches Lala-chan’s eyes as he looks away, rolls his at her raised-eyebrows-I-told-you-so expression, and very pointedly looks away. The kid is interesting, he’ll give her that, but there’s not much more to it than that, and Lala-chan will give up bugging him once she sees that. 

Minutes later, Munehisa catches himself staring again.

Munehisa pops another lollipop in his mouth as he flicks through all the data Hashimoto was able to get on Ren-chan. Real name is Kurusu Akira, only child of _the_ Kurusu Ryoto and Kurusu Kiyoko. Which makes the fact that she’s a student at Todai understandable but not the fact that she’s currently living in Yongen Jaya above a coffee shop. Or that she’s getting paid under the table at some bar in Shinjuku. Teenage rebellion maybe?

He looks for answers on the next couple of pages, clicking his teeth against his lollipop absently, and his eyebrows touch his hairline when he sees an arrest record. Assault and battery on a woman in the middle of the night. Held for the full 23 days before finally being released with no conviction, and a hefty compensation from the police afterwards.

The rest of the report offers some information on habits and movements. Close ties, of which there are a worrying lack of any. Bank statements, which are mostly empty. It’s like she just sprung fully formed into existence. He flicks back to the arrest report, the one real thing that exists about her. Rereads it again, and then once more, trying to eke out as much information as possible, before setting the papers down with a low noise of frustration. More questions than answers, he thinks with a snort, crunching through the rest of his lollipop.

It’s late, he realises now that he has finally looked up. Summer’s coming to an end but the days are still long enough that the sun setting signals a late hour. He’s been sitting here for hours now, pouring over this information, and it’s only as he stretches and twists from his hunched over position that he realises that he’s letting himself get all tied up in knots all over some kid. Munehisa scrubs a hand roughly through his hair, annoyed, and then shoves the papers away and goes to look for some dinner. 

A week passes, and then two, and then three, and then a month later finds him slouching into his corner of Crossroads. Unintentional, but he was in Shinjuku before he knew it, and he just let his feet carry him the rest of the way here. He seats himself, slipping out of his jacket, and moments later his drink is being set in front of him. He looks up at her as he murmurs his thanks— really looks at her: at the way she lowers her eyes when she bows, at the way her eyelashes fan across her delicately blushed cheeks, the way her hands clasp together in front of her. 

He tries to marry the image of Ren-chan’s (Akira’s?) arrest record with this image of her but it doesn’t compute. And yeah she’s this, and she’s innocent, and she’s coy, and she’s assertive, and she’s a million other things at every single point in time, but none of them scream _assault and battery_ and that is something that Munehisa would know. Like calls to like, after all. 

She’s more subdued today. Soft and pliant, no bold invitation in her eyes or teasing innuendo at her lips. Managing him, like he’s just another mark, and the feeling that causes stews thick like mud inside him. 

She bows and walks away and Munehisa watches her go, sipping on his drink. Irritation boils up inside him suddenly; he wants to unravel her. Wants to peel all those layers away and see what lies beyond all those blank pages. He wants to push and pull until something true falls out. 

“Tell Lala-chan to open up the back room. I’m expecting guests.”

Under his hand, her wrist feels like he could snap it in two, but there’s a placidness to her that suggests either naivety or arrogance. Or, Munehisa thinks wryly, watching the way her gaze catches on his hand on her and her pupils dilate just a little, there might just be a third option.

She gives another bow but doesn’t even try to dislodge his grip at all. Her keigo is perfect as she offers them drinks for later, but there’s something to the way she says it, something to the tone of her voice that sets a spark alight in him. A give to his take.

The soft scent of her perfume teases him again. Munehisa wonders how much of this is her managing him and how much is her own desires given form. He wonders if it even matters in the end if the results end up the same, and lets himself smile, mouth tipping up at the corner; this kid is good. “Yeah, you can come by later and take our orders.”

He very carefully doesn’t look at Lala-chan as she open the back room for him and gives the table a cursory wipe down, not wanting to receive another one of her knowing looks or even worse, her lectures. Instead he hunts out the cards and the chips, and then shrugs off his coat and settles himself into a seat with his drink to wait for his _kyodai_ and _shatei_ to arrive.

(It’s such a cliche story. Kid grows up in a rough home in a rough neighbourhood. Ends up making some rough friends, and grows up to be a rough man running with other rough men in the local Yakuza. It’s almost boring in a way, trite and predictable. But cliches are cliches for a reason; Munehisa can’t throw a brick without hitting four others like him in the family. 

But unless they’re born to it people don’t end up here on a whim, just one step off the beaten path and you’re there. You get pointed in that direction, forced to take one step after another there by a society in perpetual motion, a society that sustains itself by maintaining the status quo of powerful and powerless. And in the end all that’s left is joining a family or dying and by that point you’re hard-wired for survival.

No, Munehisa's made his peace with where he’s ended up— _who_ he’s ended up as. Not a particularly nice person, but then again, it’s not a particularly nice world.)

The room fills with smoke as it fills with people. Munehisa crunches out his lollipop and pops in another immediately. He probably could have asked them not to and they’d have listened, but he’s never taken the easy way somewhere before and he’s not gonna start now.

There’s one seat conspicuously empty by the time Ren-chan enters the room with a quiet, “Pardon the intrusion,” and he knows if he were to check his phone there wouldn’t be a message excusing his absence.

“Masa,” he says quietly to the man next to him as the rest of the table places their bets. “You heard from Tsuda?”

“Sorry, Iwai-san.” Masa’s gaze is focussed studiously on his cards. “I haven’t heard anything but when I last saw him he wasn’t looking so good. Must be home sick or something.”

Munehisa wonders if Masa thinks he was born yesterday. “Alright. Thanks for letting me know.”

They continue playing. The game’s more for fun than for any high stakes, a way for Munehisa to get them all in one place so he can check on their quotas, make sure they’re not straying, that they’re only causing the right kind of trouble. It mostly only applies to Tsuda — and honestly, as much he hates to admit it, after last time he needs to do something about him — but he has to make sure no one else is getting any stupid ideas.

Ren-chan reappears with their drinks, and Munehisa won’t deny he’s a little impressed. She’s got a good poker face, pun not intended, not at all phased by the game nor the very obvious clan members. The way she’s playing her games with them, even now, takes some serious balls, and Munehisa finds himself hiding a smile behind his cards as she works her way around the table, placing down each order without even a pause. 

She leaves his for last because of course she does. He shifts his lollipop absently and discards two cards in his hand, but it’s only got about half his attention. It’s why he sees the way her hand jerks a little before she stills it, sees the very careful way she stands there not moving, and looks down to see Masa’s hand creeping where it shouldn’t be.

Sharp, sudden anger and something much uglier roil inside him. Munehisa’s hand moves before he even realises to grip Masa’s wrist and yank it away. He could break it, he thinks. Drag him to the floor where he belongs and snap it clean off. And the thought must be plain as day to see in his face because Masa snatches his hand away as if he’s been burnt, and fixes his attention where it should have fucking been in the first place.

Ren-chan turns and walks away without a word, and Munehisa watches as she leaves the room, back straight, pace steady. He turns back to the table when the door falls shut behind her. No one says anything, but Munehisa doesn’t think anything needs to be said.

They play.

Eventually the meeting comes to an end. Everyone stumbles out in various stages of drunk but there’s a good feeling amongst the ranks so mission accomplished. Munehisa’s feeling pretty good himself until Lala-chan accosts him on his way out of the room and pushes him back inside.

“Munehisa, what. did. you. do?”

He holds his hands up as Lala-chan gets in his face, as unafraid of him as only someone who knew him from before his voice dropped could be. “Wasn’t me. Masa put his fucking hands where he shouldn’t have. I dealt with it.” 

Just talking about it brings that thick, ugly feeling bubbling back up again, anger sparking to life. Munehisa does his best to ignore it, focussing back on Lala-chan who looks… worried for a second, biting her lip. She shoots a glance at the door, and then her expression firms. 

“If you,” she starts, poking him on the chest, “have cost me my best employee, Munehisa, I’ll make what happened in Yokohama all those years ago look like nothing.” 

She turns and walks out the room and Munehisa rolls his eyes and follows her. It’s more or less closing time by that point anyway so Munehisa slips out the door with the other stragglers. Speaking of Ren-chan, he’s grudgingly impressed, he’ll give her that. A little bit of pressure and while she might have bent, she certainly didn’t break, Lala-chan’s dramatics aside. A real reaction, exactly as he wanted. 

Munehisa gets maybe halfway towards the metro, and then gives a frustrated groan as Lala-chan’s words echo in his head. Seconds later he’s heading back to wait outside of Crossroads for Ren-chan. Whatever he’s looking for, scaring the shit out of a kid isn’t it. She’s playing with fire and she needs to understand that, but there’s still some depths that even Munehisa won’t stoop to.

He unwraps another lollipop, making a note to buy some more soon. He might have gotten a glimpse underneath, but if he’s honest with himself all it’s given him is more questions. Tied up in knots again, he thinks with a snort as he settles back against the wall to wait, hands in his pockets.

It’s cold — it always is, this time of year — but Munehisa has lived here long enough to have invested some serious money on a good winter coat, so the minutes ticking away as he waits for Ren-chan to appear aren’t too bad. He does perk up a little when the door clicks and Ren-chan steps out onto the streets, ready to get this over with. He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to say, planning ahead not really being his strong suit, but he figures he’ll work an apology for Masa in there somehow, and then say goodnight. 

He only shifts a bit, ready to greet her, but her reflexes are good; Munehisa eyes her stance with interest, the hard look in her eyes. She looks ready for fight or flight. She probably could have broken Masa’s wrist herself, and that thought sends a frission of something through him. 

She looks different now. Munehisa has never seen her without the dresses and the makeup before, and more than that her stance has changed, weight distributed differently, glasses making her unassuming. But even like this she’s cute. The same but different.

“Iwai-san, is there something I can do for you?” she says, and hearing _ore_ instead of _atashi_ , Munehisa figures that this must be Kurusu-kun. Kurusu-kun hasn’t dropped his guard, which shows some measure of sense, but it doesn’t look like he’s about to attack first. _Assault and battery_ his mind tries to remind him. Munehisa disregards it.

“Good reflexes,” he says, straightening up from the wall. The way Kurusu-kun looks like he’s willing and might even able to kick his ass is somehow more than a little amusing to him. Like a feral cat, he thinks as he raises his hands so show his intent, very obviously not moving closer.

“I have to be careful,” Kurusu-kun says, and it’s uncanny watching him switch, just a couple of small shifts of his body turning him into a different person. “It’s dangerous for a girl like me out here.”

Annoyance bubbles up inside him. Kurusu-kun or Ren-chan, they still play the same games, even now. “And it’s a long way to Yongen Jaya from here,” he says, just to push a little more. 

And then— and then something real falls out. 

Offering to walk him home is done on a whim. There’s something tugging him on somewhere and Munehisa wants to see where it leads.

It’s a slow day today, but Munehisa likes those best anyway. He sits back in his chair, feet up on the counter, a fan of screws in his mouth as he puts together a new model. Mindless enough work, once you get the knack for it, but good enough to pass the time with. He’s only been open for a couple of hours so it’s a long way to get to get to the end of the day, but work’s work. Besides, Munehisa is what might be called a gun enthusiast so it’s not like someone is twisting his wrist to be here. 

Guns and Yakuza are another kind of a cliché, but it’s a legit business — most Yakuza business is nowadays. Got all his licenses and everything. It’s just that some of the customisations he does aren’t so legit. It’s a fucking pain in the ass getting real guns in Japan so the easiest thing to do is just customise the airsoft ones. And he can charge a ridiculous amount of yen for it. It’s makes up the majority of his revenue, and that means that _kumicho_ is happy. There’s a reason why Munehisa's one of his favourites.

His is the only airsoft shop in Shibuya, so he does well enough with it, but with it being an airsoft shop, it’s not like it’s a product that’s in high demand, which leaves mornings like these where he can mindlessly put together models.

But that also means that it leaves his mind free to wander, which is somewhat dangerous for him on a normal day, and has been especially treacherous lately. He can still smell Kurusu-kun’s perfume each time he breathes in, the way he smiled or frowned as he spoke, little tidbits of information tumbling out. Still feel the phantom mould of his body against his even though nothing even happened. The chastest of evenings, but Munehisa’s still hearing Kurusu-kun say, “Iwai-san,” like he likes the way it tastes in his mouth. It’s ridiculous. 

His fingers slide the stock into place, pulling a pin free from his mouth to screw it in. He has to laugh at himself, mouth kicking up in a wry smile. Losing his mind over some university student like he’s still a fucking kid himself. But there’s… _something_ there; the more he knows the more he wants to know, and he’s never been one to just let things go. Like a hound with a scent.

Munehisa debates with himself for one long minute while he pulls another pin free and screws that in too, before giving up and retrieving his phone from where it’s buried under some papers. Lala-chan sees through everything he does anyway so he doesn’t bother try obfuscate it in any way and just asks her if Ren-chan is working tonight. He isn’t surprised when it rings seconds later, and he answers it to the sound of Lala-chan laughing herself breathless.

So Tsuda _is_ up to his neck in shit again. Sasaki was kind enough to confirm it for him, not that it was any kind of mystery. But then again, Tsuda’s always up to some kind of shit, never seems to understand just what it is the family stands for, what it wants from him, and that’s why he’s never managed to make it any further than _kyodai_. And while he could get way with his dumb fucking shit in the past — because Munehisa would cover for him like the idiot he evidently is — this latest shit is going to drag down the rest of the family too. He needs to speak to him first before taking any action, more because that’s his job as _shateigashira_ and less because it’s Tsuda, but there’s nothing in this world that he wants less to do than that. 

Hands in his coat pocket, Munehisa crunches through his lollipop as he walks down central street, bad mood hovering around him like his own personal force field, parting the crowds around him like they’re magnets of the same polarity. He’ll sleep on it, because he’s too pissed off right now to not start — and end — something, and then text Tsuda in the morning.

Someone calls his name, familiar enough that Munehisa slows to a stop and waits. Seeing as how he’s not in the best of moods, it’s somewhat of a relief to see it’s Kurusu-kun the crowds churn out in front of him. The time he’s spent with him so far has been… good. Talking with him is always interesting, slowly filling in the gaps in the blank picture that is Kurusu-kun’s life.

The distance between them vanishes; Kurusu-kun curls his hands into Munehisa’s coat with a spark of what looks like genuine joy, and unconsciously the angry line of tension in Munehisa's shoulders eases.

“Kurusu-kun,” he says, enjoying the closeness, “classes done for the day?”

Kurusu-kun shakes his head, mussing his already dishevelled hair. It’s late, though not as late as they’re used to. Right now, Kurusu-kun is the very picture of a hard-working university student; Munehisa doesn’t think about that too hard. 

“Study group,” Kurusu-kun says, “but we’re done for the night now. It’s a good thing we bumped into each other though; maybe you can collect that reward you’re owed.”

Munehisa laughs. _Relentless_. “Just the one? I’d better choose carefully.”

“You can collect as many times as you’d like, Iwai-san. I owe you a lot after all.” He’s saying his name like that again, and Munehisa inhales it like he wants to savour it. No perfume today, but the scent of it haunts him always anyway. Kurusu-kun looks at him and the offer is there: in his words, his smile, his body, but even so the flirting feels perfunctory, like he just wants to be close.

Munehisa finds he wants that too. He slides a hand out of his pocket and onto Kurusu-kun’s hip, the space between them shrinking infinitesimally, thumb sweeping a path across his stomach and—

So sweet, so responsive. Munehisa replays it again in his head, sees flashes of it in his bed, before shoving it the thought away. Not going there.

“You eaten yet?” is what he says instead, the words tumbling out. He’s not willing to leave yet, or maybe he just can’t. “Come grab something with me.”

Akira smiles and it’s like nothing he’s seen before. “Of course, Iwai-san.”

He leads him to a yakiniku place close by, Kurusu-kun’s arm linked through his, animated in that quiet way of his as he talks about his project and his group and anything else that comes to mind. The place is run by a friend of the family, so it’s easy enough to get a seat — non-smoking, of course — in a quiet-ish corner at the back.

“Order whatever you want, my treat.” He pushes the menu over to Kurusu-kun with his fingers, and then once he picks it up Munehisa sits back and slides out of his coat. Kurusu-kun spears him with an inscrutable look over the top of the menu but takes off his coat as well and dutifully starts scanning the items, face twitching as he presumably sees the prices. It’s a quality place, high class despite the lack of dress code. Munehisa comes here often enough that he already knows what he’s getting, so he watches Kurusu-kun instead, rolling the finished lollipop stick around in his mouth.

There’s something soft about him like this. Could be the time, the place, or the company, but Munehisa's pretty sure it’s the latter. Though it’s their first time like this, outside the world of Crossroads, he’s been walking Kurusu-kun home for a month now. And maybe Munehisa is getting better at reading between the lines, but maybe Kurusu-kun’s defences just aren’t up as high because there’s a rawness to him that he never saw before, like an exposed nerve. Munehisa gets the feeling that not a lot of people, if any, get to see that. And there’s a shockingly large part of him that really loves the idea of it belonging only to him. 

“You know, Iwai-san, I could almost think this was a date.” Kurusu-kun glances up at him briefly before returning to the menu. His smile is sly, knowing. Munehisa enjoys it anyway. 

“If it was a date then you wouldn't be wondering,” he says, watching as that smile immediately falls. Munehisa doesn’t think he’s ever seen Kurusu-kun pout before. Looking at it though, he bets it gets him whatever the hell he wants. 

His pout lasts for only a second, and then he says, “You must really want to spend time with me then. Did you miss me, Iwai-san?” On the surface it’s just more flirting, but Munehisa can see it, that soft underbelly of his showing through.

“Yeah,” he says, understated but true — and surprised to discover that’s the case — and then grins at the red that spreads across Kurusu-kun's cheeks, like ink dipped in water. Before Kurusu-kun can give any kind of comeback, Nishimura-san arrives to take their orders.

“Iwai-san,” she greets smiling, “back again so soon? And Iwai-san’s guest,” she says, bowing to Kurusu-kun, “welcome.”

“You complaining, Nishimura-san?” 

She slants him a look and then turns to Kurusu-kun and in the blandest tone of voice says, “Iwai-san is so kind as to keep us in business with his consistent and continued patronage. We are, of course, ever so grateful for presence.”

Kurusu-kun laughs, and Munehisa rolls his eyes and says, “Well, if we don’t get some food soon that ‘consistent and continued patronage’ is gonna go to the ramen shop down the road.”

Nishimura-san turns her back to him completely and Munehisa snorts. “As Iwai-san has yet to introduce me, please forgive this rudeness. I am Nishimura Mitsuki, the owner of this restaurant. What can we get for you this evening, Iwai-san’s guest?”

Kurusu-kun is smiling up at her, absolutely delighted. “Nishimura-san, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Kurusu Akira and I’m having a hard time deciding. What would you recommend?”

Nishimura-san’s eyes light up and they fall into talking like they’re the old friends instead. Munehisa rolls his eyes again — just to make sure everyone is aware of his feelings on the matter — but otherwise sits back, silent, unperturbed at being left out. Seeing the way Kurusu-kun interacts with other people from such a close vantage point gives a whole new perspective on him anyway. He’s sure that Kurusu-kun knows exactly what he wants, and that he’ll be able to eventually lead the conversation there. But he must have seen how proud Nishimura-san is of her restaurant and so gave her a chance to show-off a little. He’s a mirror, in a sense, but rather than reflecting that person’s personality traits back at them, he reflects their wants instead. And Munehisa doesn’t need to be a genius to know that kids with happy childhoods don’t develop skills like that.

Nishimura-san eventually talks Kurusu-kun through to what is undoubtedly his original choices, and then turns to Munehisa as though with great reluctance. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your usual added?”

“You know, I’m sure that ramen place is still open,” he says, pushing up from the table as though getting to his feet.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” she says, waving him back down. “I’ll be back with your drinks shortly.”

She disappears, and in no time at all they’re sipping on their drinks as their food arrives in a parade of plates, different types of meat fanned out on the table around the hot grill, along with bowls of plain rice, and small trays of dipping sauces. They talk while the meat is cooking, and without even noticing when, Munehisa realises that his bad mood from earlier has been completely dispelled.

Kurusu-kun _stares_ as he pushes up his sleeves before digging in, eyes caught on the ink wrapped around his forearms, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s not the first time they’ve been on show around Kurusu-kun, and it’s definitely not the first time he’s stared, but though he looks, he never asks about it. Munehisa can’t tell whether it’s avoidance or acceptance. Knowing Kurusu-kun, he’s probably taken a third option instead.

Munehisa hits the call button, reaching for his beer to finish it and order another one, but Kurusu-kun swipes it from under his hand like he’d been planning the heist all night and takes a sip. Munehisa laughs as Kurusu-kun's nose wrinkles up, mouth like he just sucked on a lemon, and watches as he discards the beer for his own drink, gulping down the rest to wash away the taste.

“Iwai-san, why? That’s disgusting.” Kurusu-kun vigorously dunks some beef in some salt and then stuffs it in his mouth with a look of absolute betrayal, and Munehisa is still laughing by the time Nishimua-san appears at their table again.

“Another one of these, Nishimura-san,” he says, pointing to his empty glass, “and bring me a glass of peach shochu too.”

Nishimura raises both eyebrows at him, shoots a glance over at Kurusu-kun as if to say _you’re not fooling me, Iwai-san_ but returns with their drinks anyway. 

Munehisa slides the shochu over to Kurusu-kun, lips twitching in an aborted grin. “Try this.”

Kurusu-kun shoot him such a look of suspicion that Munehisa starts laughing again, but he picks it up, gives it a sniff like a wary cat, and then takes a little sip.

“Good?” Munehisa ask, somewhat rhetorically based on the expression on Kurusu-kun’s face, and places more meat on the grill.

“Better,” Kurusu-kun says, taking another, much larger sip.

“You want another?” he asks, with no small amount of amusement, seeing as how the glass is half gone now.

Kurusu-kun gives him one of his coy looks. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Iwai-san?”

“You know I’d take care of you. Get you home nice and safe.” There’s a surprising weight to his words. Unintentional, but definitely not untrue. 

Kurusu-kun’s gaze drops for a second, that soft core of him shining through, and then he says, “Ah, well, if Iwai-san doesn’t mind…”

“Nah,” he says, unable to look away, “my pleasure.”

A week later sees him on his way to Nihombashi, because that’s the earliest Sasaki could pin down Tsuda’s movements. The fact that Tsuda’s been dodging his calls is not only an admission of guilt if he ever saw one but also just fucking insulting, so Munehisa’s bad mood has returned with a vengeance. He has a bad feeling about this, something deep inside that says it won’t be as easy as him telling Tsuda to knock it the fuck off, but rules are rules. He’ll deal with the situation as it changes

He gets out at Ginza station, pulling up the collar of his coat as an arctic wind sweeps down the street. Apparently Tsuda’s meeting with some people over at the Imperial Hotel. Crashing the meeting is likely to get people killed so Munehisa had aimed for just before, hoping to catch Tsuda before he commits to something stupid.

He’s a bit too early though. Right now he’s not even sure if Tsuda’s there or not. Hanging around the station is likely to tip someone off though so Munehisa just picks a direction and starts walking. He pulls out a lollipop, just for something to do, and pops it in as his feet take him down past the finance sector, and into the shopping district, full of sophisticated department stores and high end eateries dotted between them. It’s a nice enough area, if that’s the kind of thing you’re into. Munehisa’s mind flashes an image of him and Kurusu-kun sitting in the sushi restaurant on the corner, or sitting with Ren-chan in the okonomiyaki place across the road and his insides twist at the thought. He wants that, he realises, and the thought is earth-shattering.

Munehisa turns on his heel, away from whatever temptation the sight holds, and heads back the way he came. Later on, he still wouldn't be able to say what made him stop. Maybe the store lights hit him just right in the coming darkness of winter, or maybe the sweet perfume scent evoked her memory, but Munehisa stops and the display in the window catches his eye.

Stepping inside is a whim. So is texting Lala-chan, and then buying the damn dress, but Munehisa steps out of that store about 40000 yen lighter and with an understanding that he’s in way over his head. He’d almost changed his mind a half dozen times, but the thought had taken hold and in the end he gave into it. As a compromise he’d asked for the dress to be delivered to Crossroads. A declaration of intent, one Ren-chan is free to turn down if she wants.

But he’s smiling as he shoves his hands into his pockets and heads towards the hotel.

A receptionist points him in the right direction when he asks, and Munehisa takes a moment to feel the comforting press of his gun at his side and his knife in his pocket before pushing into the room. 

His eyes take it in in seconds: Masa and Ueda in the room by the table with Hamasaki and Kurosawa by the door, and Tsuda at the head of the table by the window, expression bored as he turns around to face Munehisa. Hamasaki and Kurosawa go to stop him before realising it’s him, and the way they both pale in tandem would be amusing at any other time, but mostly Munehisa feels tired at how many of his men are involved in this shit.

“So was it Yamaguchi or Goto who gave it away?” he says, and Munehisa absorbs the blow of those words, face unchanging, but Tsuda reads him like an open book anyway. They’ve known each other too long for anything else.

“Poor Mune,” he continues, smug, “have you finally woken up? Any longer and I would have snatched up everyone from right underneath you.” He tilts his head, and Munehisa sees his perpetual bitterness start to seep through. “It’s what happens when you spend too much time sucking up to Hamada.” 

Not even a ‘Hamada-sama’, Munehisa thinks, and his stomach sinks.

“So what’s the plan?” he says, as bland as he can make it while his heart and mind race. “Ingratiate yourself with the Triads, secure Japan-Hong Kong trafficking routes, amass power, steal territory right out from underneath the Hashiba clan, and then eventually absorb or purge us as you take over as _kumicho_?”

Tsuda’s lips purse, which means he hadn’t realised that Munehisa had figured out his whole plan, but he bares his teeth in a grin and says, “That’s right.” The others watch on nervously, fidgeting like school boys. Maybe with a bit of pressure Munehisa could break them, but they’ll be of no use right now.

“And how long until you get bored of this, Tsuda, or give up whining that it’s too hard?” he says, letting his disgust bleed into his voice. “This is why you never made it further than _kyodai_ ; you were never willing to put in the fucking work. Shut it down, Tsuda. I’m only gonna tell you once.”

Tsuda twitches but Munehisa gets there first, drawing his gun and pointing it straight at Tsuda’s chest, safety flicked off. Around him, the others twitch too, but they’re too hesitant, and ultimately, too useless. Tsuda’s face tightens in anger before smoothing out again. 

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mune. It’s your name I’ve put down in this deal. Don’t think the Triads would be too happy if you renege on it,” he says, and his grin here is ugly. “Things end up messy, you know. Collateral damage.”

Those words hit him like bullets. Munehisa doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink but Tsuda senses it like a shark seeking blood.

“That’s what I thought.” He straightens his cuffs, dismissive. “Now, I’ve got a meeting starting soon so you can go. I’ll call you when you’re needed.”

For one taut second, Munehisa imagines doing it, imagines squeezing the trigger, a double-tap to the chest and one in the head for good measure. He looks around the room, at the way Hamasaki won’t meet his eyes, at Ueda and Goto’s guilty shifting. At Masa, who has straightened up out of his perpetual nervous slouch, triumphant grin turning him into a whole new person. But in the end he stows his gun and without a word walks out the room.

(Because his first thought when Tsuda mentioned _collateral_ was—)

The station is close enough but Munehisa has too much impotent rage to work out to be able to sit docilely on the metro. He could go and pay a visit to _kumicho_. The Hashiba clan conglomerate headquarters sit not too far from here — likely the reason why Tsuda set up his meet in Ginza in the first place, the petty bastard — but that’s what Tsuda would be expecting. Obviously Munehisa isn’t going to just lay down and take it, but one single misstep and— 

What he needs is to think. He wanders, turning over and over in his head what he knows, all the information Sasaki was able to dig up. Tsuda’s predicted him pretty well, but that knowledge goes both ways. Admittedly, this is one of Tsuda’s better schemes, but Tsuda’s schemes never worked out in the past for a reason. 

Those other schemes were irritants at best though. Munehisa’s rage swells, and the world dissolves into a haze of red. Collateral damage. Yakuza have codes for a _reason_. For Tsuda to just shit all over that is…

(Does he already know about—)

It’s rush hour now, offices opening up to let loose a deluge of workers, so the crowds are like a rushing river. Despite his aimlessness, Munehisa cuts a swath through them, anger propelling him on. When he looks up again he’s back where he was before, surrounded by glossy department stores and cosy, intimate restaurants. He spots the same window display, and for one breathless second he considers cancelling the delivery.

In the end he turns away and continues walking. Maybe it could serve as a keepsake. Maybe it’ll end up in the bin. Who cares. He has work to do.

Sunday, and Munehisa is on the train to Shin-Okubo to meet with Hashimoto and Sasaki. The announcement for Shinjuku comes and reflexively Munehisa looks up. He’s still staring at the doors long after they have shut and the train has pulled away.

Monday, and the train doors open at Shinjuku. Munehisa stares until the doors slide shut again.

Tuesday, and Munehisa stares until the doors slide shut again.

Wednesday, and the doors slide shut.

Thursday, and the doors slide shut.

_“You’re not coming?”_

_“We’ve already been through this, Lala-chan.”_

_“Never took you for a coward before, Munehisa”_

_“That’s not it and you know it.”_

_“Then you’ll have no problem telling her directly that you’re done with her.”_

Friday, and Munehisa stares at the open doors before slipping through them and off the train a split second before they close. He takes the stairs up out of the station two at a time, and then he’s outside Crossroads in no time at all, cursing himself the entire time. He has a date and a location now, along with another reminder of his threat, and he’s supposed to prepare an entire shipment of weapons to go with this meeting, stage one of Tsuda’s ingratiation. This isn’t even the worst of Tsuda’s orders, and Munehisa has been playing messenger boy, pretending like Tsuda’s won while he meets with Sasaki and Hashimoto. They’re trying to dig up something — anything — that would call this whole thing off or at least give them some leverage, and currently their work has produced fuck all. He’s running out of time but here he is, right where he told himself he wouldn’t be.

His breath coalesces in the cold air as he stands and stares at the front door. He can still turn away. Turn and walk back to the station. Lala-chan will eventually forgive him.

(Ren-chan will eventually move on.) 

The door swings open, spilling light out onto the street. A drunk couple stumble out and Munehisa grabs the door before it can swing shut again and steps inside. He doesn’t look in Lala-chan’s direction, or head for his usual corner, instead casting his gaze across the room until he finds her, at the end of the bar, and—

God.

It’s like a blow to the chest. The one-two punch of seeing her again and seeing her in that dress has his breath catching, shuddering like there’s a vice around his chest. The way it looked in the window barely holds a candle to the way it looks on her. Munehisa pushes through the crowds as though possessed, as though she has him on a leash and is tugging him to heel.

“Ren-chan,” he says once he’s close enough, close enough for her scent to tease him again, make him want to stand even closer, to press his nose to the nape of her neck and breathe it in, chase it with his mouth and taste it on her.

She turns around and Munehisa’s fists clench where they’re hidden in his pockets, fighting the urge to just reach out and touch. Something dark in him is pleased at the idea of her wearing something he got for her. Munehisa wonders if other people can look at her and know that she’s taken.

“Ren-chan,” he says again, momentarily forgetting that he’d already done so. He should say something else, but all he has is her name right now. Her legs seem to go on forever like this; Munehisa takes his time staring his fill.

“Good evening, Iwai-san,” she says, the familiar way she says his name sending a spark of heat down his spine.

“Yeah,” he says, because it deserves some kind of response, but he feels like a stuck record. “Do you like it, Ren-chan?” he asks, and it should be obvious because she is wearing it, but he needs to hear her say it.

“Yes, Iwai-san,” she says, cracking open that vulnerable core for him. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you,”

He thinks about tasting that thank you, about backing her up against the bar and feeling the way she moulds her body to his and—

In his pocket his phone vibrates, and it’s like getting doused in ice cold water. What the fuck is he doing here? Tsuda’s still out there and he’s in here entertaining fantasies.

“I’m glad,” he says, saving the image of her away in his memory before turning to walk away.

There’s a slight tug at his sleeve, just the slightest of touches, but Munehisa stops anyway, frozen.

“Will you walk me home tonight, Iwai-san?” There’s a tremor in her voice and Munehisa feels the ache of it in his chest. “It’s not safe for a girl like me out there.”

She hands him that fragile centre of her, and Munehisa thinks about saying no, about throwing it away, about never seeing it again. The words are there on his tongue: _don’t think that’s a good idea_ , or maybe even _this is getting a bit boring now_. But mostly he thinks about walking away from her right now and how there's no way in hell he'll be able to

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Wait for me, Ren-chan.” _Please_.

“Of course, Iwai-san,” she says, and Munehisa lets that shore him up as he leaves.

Munehisa unwraps another lollipop even as he crunches through the one in his mouth, far too agitated sitting in the back of the car as it winds through the tight roads to their destination.

“Relax,” Sasaki says, far too laid back, but then again he never really gets worked up at anything anyway. “We’ve got this.”

“And if we don’t,” Hashimoto pipes up from the front seat, “then we won’t have to worry about it for too long anyway.”

Munehisa barks out a laugh and Hashimoto sends him a grin through the mirror. They’re not wrong, and usually Munehisa goes into these things with that kind of morbid outlook, but this time he’s got a reason or two to want to make it out all in one piece.

Still, it does the job. Munehisa sits back in the seat, rolling his lollipop around in his mouth as they draw closer to the site. Really, despite how well they can take care of themselves, these two shouldn’t be involved at all; Sasaki is an informant, for all he’s ex-Yakuza, and Hashimoto is a fucking kid who should still be sitting safe behind his computer, but he’s a little low on trust at the moment. Between the three of them, they have a good idea who Tsuda managed to flip, but it only takes one mistake to bring this whole thing crashing down like an avalanche, and things are precarious enough. At least he knows that these two will only do whatever the fuck he paid them to. When it comes to contract work, you’re only ever as good as your word. 

They pull up near the meeting site early, precisely as they wanted. Sasaki gets out of the car with him but he still feels naked as he shuts the door and heads towards the waterfront. Hashimoto agreed to remain behind the wheel just in case and all three of them are armed but there are just far too many people who might want to kill them.

It’s empty when they arrive. There’s no need for words; they both know the plan so they split up without a word and Munehisa hunkers down out of sight to wait for the others to arrive. 

His knuckles ache.

Munehisa looks down at his hands. At the raw skin, at the stain of blood seeping into the cracks, the blossoming bruises. He clenches them, thinking about the impact of skin on skin, the crying, the begging, poison words that fell from his lips until Munehisa drew his gun and—

He breathes in. Breathes out around the burning, smouldering wreck in his chest. Tries not to shatter through his rage.

The street lights click on and Munehisa finally looks up, as though waking from a long dream. They’re not back in Shibuya yet, still winding through the back roads in order to avoid the rush hour traffic. Around him the car is silent, not even the background murmur from the radio to break it, but Munehisa can’t stomach any kind of conversation right now. Even if the quiet gives him far too much time to think.

Right under his nose. How much had they managed to get away with right under his fucking nose? How much had his blind spot for Tsuda cost them? How many other things did Tsuda fucking— He stops, reels in his unravelling edges. Clenches his fists again, just for the bright slash of pain across his knuckles, like penance. He’s got a lot of house cleaning to do. He wonders if _kumicho_ will show him the leniency he’s been mistakenly granting others.

The car eases round a turn on the slow, sleepy roads, and the familiar shape of the buildings breaks through the red haze of his thoughts.

“Stop the car,” he says quietly, leaning forward. Hashimoto shoots him a startled look through the mirror, but obligingly pulls over.

“Iwai—” Sasaki tries but Munehisa ignore him and opens the door, sliding out of the car in one smooth motion.

“I’ll send the rest of your payment through later,” he says, and then he shuts the door, staring down the road he’s turned down a million times before, and starts walking. The car sits for a moment behind him, and then it slowly peels away and continues on. Munehisa ignores it, feet taking him past the bathouse on the corner, the combini across the road. 

(He shouldn’t be here.)

( _You’ve got a new piece, don’t you, Mune?_ )

He goes to shove his hands into his pockets, forgetting momentarily about their state, and then winces at the raw scrape over split skin. It’s fine; the cold winter air eventually numbs his hands through and Munehisa just puts one foot in front of the other.

(He shouldn’t be here.)

( _Pretty bitch like that, bet she screams nicely._ )

The scent of coffee leads him on. The sun is long gone now, but Munehisa knows these roads and the street lights mark the path. All he has to do is keep going. He vacillates between a white hot rage and an icy anger, violence sitting on his skin like an armour. The few people out on the streets give him a wide berth, but their presence barely registers, not when as he looks up he finds himself standing outside of Cafe Leblanc.

(He shouldn’t be here.)

( _Should have fucked her up when I had the chance._ )

Munehisa pushes the door open.

The warmth hits him like a wall. Munehisa stands in the doorway for a second before stepping past the threshold and allowing the door to fall shut behind him.

There’s no one there.

( _Pretty bitch like that, bet she screams nicely._ )

Munehisa teeters on the edge, ready to shatter, ready to rend this place in two, when a familiar voice reaches him, calling out from the back. He doesn’t relax until Kurusu-kun comes into view, with wide eyes and dishevelled hair, completely whole.

“Kurusu-kun,” he says, voice brittle. He realises that he’s just been standing there, so he slides into a seat at the counter and slips off his coat. He’d forgotten about his hands again; pain bursts anew in his hands as the material of his coat slides over them and Munehisa gets caught up staring at the bloodied and torn skin. He should have stopped sooner, once it was clear that no more information was going to fall out, but after a while there was nothing left in him but a volcanic kind of fury, hits falling rhythmically, and by that point Munehisa just _couldn’t_ st—

Kurusu-kun’s voice finally breaks through, like there’s a lag between him and the rest of the world. “Yeah,” he says, though it sounds a lot more certain that he feels. But each inhale here smothers the anger in his chest, flames banked once more. Munehisa just needs to sit here a moment. “Coffee would be great.” 

He only realises that time has passed when a cup of coffee is placed in front of him, and then again when Kurusu-kun reaches for his hand. Part of him doesn’t want him touching it, but a larger part of him is unravelling, crumbling, and Kurusu-kun’s warm hands cradling his feels like the only thing holding him in one piece.

He exists again for the moment, as Kurusu-kun tends to one hand and then the other, shrinking the distance between them until Munehisa can breathe him in, searching for that heady scent under the blanketing scent of coffee.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, Iwai-san?”

They’re still touching. Munehisa shakes his head in answer to his question as he stares transfixed at the way Kurusu-kun’s hands curl over his, no hesitation in the way he touches him.

“Is there… anything else we need to take care of, Iwai-san?”

Much later, the gravity of that offer will hit him anew, but for now Munehisa, who only seems to exist in flashes, in the moments Kurusu-kun’s attention is on him, thinks of him being near to that piece of shit Tsuda and he f r a c t u r e s.

“No,” he says, and it’s like ice cracking, like the earth quaking as he finally moves, looking up at Kurusu-kun. “No,” he says again, thinking _you don't go near him_ , thinking _you don't see him_ , thinking _don't even think of him, never him, it’s—_ “—just me. In this place, right now, you think only of me, okay?” 

Just me, he thinks, heart tattooing out _mine_ on the inside of his ribs, and Kurusu-kun stammers out something, cracking his chest wide open for Munehisa to see as though in agreement and he just—

He slides a hand into his hair, the ache washed away by the taste of his mouth, by the way Kurusu-kun offers himself up to Munehisa, pliant to his will. He needs to be closer and so Munehisa makes it so, discarding his chair so he can mould Kurusu-kun to him, slip a hand under his top and press their bodies together.

It goes on, and Munehisa submerges himself in it, greedy hands mapping their way across Kurusu-kun’s as surely as he takes his mouth until he’s begging between kisses, the soft, whispered pleas between sucking on his tongue itching away at Munehisa. He groans, setting Kurusu-kun on the counter just to have those legs wrapped around him, and drags him into another hungry kiss, hands under Akira’s top— because his name belongs to him now just as much as his mouth does and his body does and that bright, shining core of him does too.

A dull ache rises in his hands from where he clutches at Akira. The price he’d willingly paid to have this, he thinks distantly, but that hazy thought sends him hurtling back to reality. It’s still not done. Munehisa needs to speak to _kumicho_ , needs to scrape out the rest of the rot in the Hashiba, make sure there’s no one left to even think about making any threats. As much as he wants to exist here, between Akira’s thighs, living on his mouth, he has to leave. 

Stopping feels like trying to separate the salt from the oceans. Munehisa pulls back in stages until he can convince himself to not go in for one last kiss.

“I have to go—” _Akira_ “—Kurusu-kun,” he says, hating the distance between them. “I’ll see you later.”

Desperate hands pull him into another kiss and Munehisa loses time for a while.

“Of course, Iwai-san,” Akira says, brittle, and it takes everything Munehisa has to walk away.

Under such scrutiny, Munehisa fights to remain absolutely still. 

Days ago he’d finally gone to _kumicho_ to explain the situation, pass over all the information he’d learned from Masa, and tell him about the clean up he still needed to carry out, and that clean up was completed today. Now he bows before Hamada-sama waiting for his verdict for his role in all this. _Shateigashira_ he may be, but he’d been way out of line with the decisions he’d made. He can only hope that all those years of being the favourite have paid off.

“Come, Munehisa, sit and talk with me.”

He straightens up, shocked, but seats himself at the table across from Hamada-sama. There are guards at the doors and probably even more men outside, but Hamada-sama sits with him like they’re the only two in the room.

Hamada-sama laughs suddenly. “You know, that’s the same face you used to pull when you were a kid and you were caught doing things you knew you shouldn’t be doing. I guess some things never change.”

Munehisa rolls his eyes instinctively, and Hamada-sama laughs harder, and Munehisa’s body unwinds in degrees, nervous fight or flight tension draining slowly away.

“You did well,” Hamada-sama says, looking at him with what looks a hell of a lot like fondness. “Is the clean up complete?”

Still reeling from the offhand _you did well_ , Munehisa gives his report automatically, laying out how many were purged, and the damage Masa’s running mouth did to their operations. They were contingencies in place for a lot of it, and for the rest they were able to scramble a response, but they did end up taking a hit.

Hamada-sama sits back, looking pensive as Munehisa finishes with, “We can’t be completely sure who Tsuda had flipped, but I’m hoping them finding out what happened to him will help keep any dumb ideas they have to themselves.”

“And you’ll be monitoring things?” Hamada-sama asks. There’s no censure in his tone but Munehisa can’t help but take it as such.

“Yeah,” he says, fighting the way his gaze wants to slide away, “I’ll be paying close attention now.”

Hamada-sama waves his hand as though in dismissal and says, “I trust you, Munehisa.” And while Munehisa is reeling from _that_ , goes on to say, “Though I am curious to know what made this time so different from the other games Tsuda played. Your response was quite… inspired.”

Munehisa’s mouth opens automatically, an answer about the good of the clan on the tip of his tongue but—

(But but _but_ )

( _Should have fucked her up when I had the chance._ )

—what comes out is, “He threatened something of mine.”

Munehisa drops his wallet and keys on the dining table, bone deep exhaustion dragging at his limbs, and then forces himself to get changed before allowing himself to collapse on his bed. The adrenaline of the past couple of days has worn off — right around about Tameikasanno, in fact — and Munehisa had been running on fumes before then anyway. It’s a surprise he even made it back from Kayabacho in the first place, and isn’t currently snoring away on the Ginza line. But now that business is all taken care of, Munehisa’s mind can now—

( _stepping into the vee of his thighs to take his mouth again_ )

—obsess over other things instead. 

Munehisa runs a weary hand over his face. His knuckles still ache, but each burst of pain only reminds him of Akira’s small hands on his, deft fingers soothing it away. He can still feel him, body pliant and needy, hungry mouth begging him between kisses. What a fucking idiot to think he could walk away from him so easily, like he hadn’t staked a claim on him an age ago.

Tomorrow, he decides. He’ll track Akira down tomorrow and they’ll talk. All cards on the table. And then maybe Munehisa can stop acting like he’s lost his goddamn mind.

His stomach rumbles, and Munehisa heaves himself back to his feet with a groan, heading for the kitchen. He already knows he doesn’t have much in the way of food, because he doesn’t do much in the way of cooking, but he checks his cupboards anyway. He settles for a cup noodle — because even the thought of waiting the three minutes for the noodle to cook seems too long so ordering takeout is out of the question — and eats it from under his kotatsu. 

The heat sets him adrift, enough that the sound of bins crashing outside his apartment makes him start. He contemplates ignoring it, too warm and too comfortable, but vigilance is what has kept him alive all these years, so he gets up to check.

The chill of the night radiates from his window as he peers outside. There’s someone laying — unconscious, drunk, or dead, who knows — in the nest of bins on the corner, and under the light of the streetlamp there are two police officers harassing someone else. Considering they’re the same officers that hang around his shop like a bad smell because they know he’s Yakuza but can’t do anything about it, that doesn’t come as any surprise. Their victim this time looks kind of like Akira, all long legs and messy hair, but Munehisa knows he’s yearning right now so he dismisses that thought, ready to return to the warmth of the kotatsu.

Then maybe-Akira shifts, knocking away the officer’s hand, and with a rising anger Munehisa realises there’s no maybe about it. He grabs his keys, and a coat for the cold he could feel through the window, and then slams out of his apartment and down the stairs. Why Akira is there, what he’s doing with the police— Munehisa doesn’t care. That Akira had looked scared when not even Masa and the Yakuza had managed it is enough for Munehisa.

By the time he pushes the front doors open, Munehisa feels like a volcano in danger of erupting.

“You two again?” he says, and it’s more of a snarl, every ounce of his dislike and disgust in those three words.

“Iwai-san,” Kuroda — or Kamoda or whatever the fuck his name is — says, looking like he’s just been force-fed shit.

“If you’re done picking on university students, maybe you can give him back his ID so we can all fucking go to sleep.”

He doesn’t need to make any threats; they both know intimately the amount of trouble Munehisa could get them into if they choose not to play nice with him. And maybe this’ll cause issues for Akira later on down the line, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. Just looking at Akira’s hunched shoulders, cowering like a hit dog awaiting another one has him almost too angry to see straight; there’s no way he’d leave him to handle this alone.

And so with Munehisa staring them down, the police officers give back Akira’s ID and slink off. Munehisa doesn’t watch them go, already dismissing them as he turns to Akira instead, and his heart stops beating as he sees, from too far away, as Akira just collapses to the ground as though his whole body has given out. Without even thinking Munehisa dashes out barefoot to reach him, calling his name even as he hauls him into his arms. His heart doesn’t start beating again until Akira curls into him, and Munehisa cradles him close and carries him back inside.

Akira is all long limbs but weighs surprisingly little so getting him up the stairs is no issue. It’s a bit of a struggle opening his apartment door, but Munehisa doesn’t want to put him down, not even for a second, so he deals with it and slams the door shut with his foot. He’s still pretty unresponsive, curled into Munehisa’s chest, trembling, and behind Munehisa’s ribs he feels something clench tight. 

He carries him right through to his bedroom, laying him gently on the bed, and sits down beside him, relieved to find no obvious injuries after a quick once over.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and as soft as he’s ever heard it. He cups Akira’s face, thumb stroking over the arch of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Cold hands search out his and Munehisa offers his other hand for Akira to hold onto, repeating his words over and over again until the shaking eases and Akira blinks up at him in confusion.

That confusion very quickly gives way to alarm. “Iwai-san?” he says, gaze bouncing frantically around the room, only allowing himself to sink back into the bed once it lands back on Munehisa. He seems to realise the position they’re in all at once: hand on his cheek, other hand intertwined with his, and his cheeks flush pink. Munehisa can’t help thumbing over it, like if he tries hard enough he can get a little of it on his fingers. 

“Hey,” he says, one side of his mouth tipping up in a lopsided smile, “were you looking for me?”

Akira opens his mouth, visibly trying to pull himself together like shutters coming down, but then stops and then says, “I wanted to see you. I—” He cuts himself off with a yawn, raising their joined hands to his mouth.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

Akira nods and yawns again. His eyes are heavy now, either with exhaustion or relief or both, but Munehisa enjoys the sight of him like this in his bed anyway. He reaches for Akira’s glasses, placing them by the bed, coaxes him out of his coat and bag, and then tugs off his boots to put in the genkan.

When he returns, Akira’s eyes are shut and his breathing is deep, but he makes an effort to stir when Munehisa pulls the blankets out from underneath him to tuck him in.

“Where are you sleeping?” Akira asks, creeping hands clinging to Munehisa’s arms.

Munehisa huffs a laugh, pulling up the blanket. “I’ll figure something out.”

“But it’s yours,” he says, voice growing fainter, sounding unbelievably young. He tugs, and Munehisa resists, fighting to disengage even as Akira sleepily thwarts him.

“I’ll be fine for tonight,” he says, laughing again.

Akira’s next words barely a murmur but Munehisa catches the word ‘trouble’.

“You’re nothing but,” he says, disgustingly fond, “but I like you that way. Sleep well—” Akira “—Kurusu-kun.”

“Goodnight,” Akira says, with what Munehisa would be tempted to call a pout, eyes slipping shut again. 

Munehisa gives into temptation and kisses him on it, whispering, “I’m glad you’re here.”

He pulls out the futon from the wardrobe and an extra blanket and pillow from the cupboard in the hall, and then settles down for the night beside his bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Akira’s chest.

He’s not aware of when he falls asleep, but when he wakes it’s to feather-light touches to his face. He takes hold of the exploring hand as he opens his eyes, and the sight of Akira, hair mussed and expression soft, slowly comes into focus.

“Whoops,” Akira says, not looking very sorry at all, and Munehisa rolls his eyes as he sits up.

Akira looks softer in the early morning light, like the sun has smudged his edges a little. There’s still a wildness to his eyes though, and Munehisa remembers how he shut down last night, the trembling, so he can’t help but say, “Hey, you okay?” and—

The way Akira looks at him sets his heart to pounding. Akira looks at him like he sees something profound, some kind of miracle, and Munehisa is only able to get out a “What—” before Akira is sliding into his lap and his mouth is sliding over his and Munehisa—

Munehisa is lost.

He'd fucked him, and then blown him, and then he’d fucked him again as Akira sobbed and begged him to come, and still his body doesn't feel like it’s enough. Like there’s some clawing desperate thing inside him needing to claim Akira over and over again until the indelible mark of him branded Akira's skin.

Now Akira lies in his arms again catching his breath while Munehisa does his best to keep his hands to himself, limiting it to the flat planes of Akira’s stomach. Akira reaches a hand up, scratching through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and Munehisa presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“You wanna have that talk now?” he says into the skin.

Akira hums, but is still silent for a long moment. Munehisa waits him out, and eventually Akira asks, “Why did you leave that time?”

Munehisa takes a deep breath, knowing this was coming, and then does his best to explain the whole situation with Tsuda and the clan, the threats, and the fall out. Not everything, not that stretch of time that Munehisa had spent reducing Tsuda down to nothing with just his own two hands, but the way Akira’s fingers stroke whisper-soft over his knuckles as he talks suggests that he has an inkling anyway.

“If you’re gonna be involved we me though then this will likely happen again,” Munehisa says, voice a little hoarse, explanation winding to a close. In his arms, Akira lies still and comfortable. Trusting, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Munehisa doesn’t know what to do with that. “And with last night, the police might start giving you a hard time now too.”

Akira rolls over to face him. “What I remember from last night is you saving me,” he begins quietly, meeting Munehisa’s gaze without even a hint of the fear he showed last night. “I remember you taking care of me. I remember you calling me Akira.” Here his gaze drops, like being this vulnerable is just too much to bear. “I liked it when you called me Akira.” he continues, hushed, “like the way my name sounds in your mouth.”

Fuck. 

Munehisa can’t not kiss him for that, and Akira meets him halfway, plush and so so giving, mouth parting for his tongue at the barest of touches. 

“Don’t shut me out,” Akira says when they’ve finally pulled apart, still clinging to him and panting, and the thought of it is horrifying, _terrifying_ , but— 

“Okay,” he says, pressing his forehead to Akira’s. “Okay.”

—but there’s something tugging him on somewhere and Munehisa wants to see where it leads.


End file.
